


Gravestones

by thomasjeffersonsmacaroni



Series: The Other 51 [17]
Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni/pseuds/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni
Summary: A man wanders through the graveyard. Another man sees him.





	

The grass rustled under his sneakers as he walked among the gravestones, and the gentle night breeze rustled the leaves of the trees overhead. The full moon would not arrive upon Salem for another night, but already slivers of light peeked through the clouds and illuminated the scene.

Another man would call this eerie. But the Amnesiac, who was used to these nightly wanderings, paid it no mind.

 _Gideon Grey. Spy._ Killed first night by the mafia. Lucky for them, unlucky for the town.

 _Alexandra Stephens. Mafioso._ Spotted by the lookout and lynched Day 2. By now, another mafia member had moved up to her rank.

Gravestones and gravestones and gravestones, most of them empty, lying in wait for the next body found in its house deceased. But no matter how much time the Amnesiac spent among them, none of them brought with them any kind of recollection of the past.

There was a pang in his forehead, then a wetness pressing itself against his bandage. Reluctantly, he made his way back home, writing on the wall along the way that the next night was a full moon, and he would have to be careful. There probably wasn't a werewolf in the town, judging by the recent kills, but it was better safe than sorry.

 

The next night, the Amnesiac heard twin grunts and the unmistakable sound of a dead body being dragged through dirt and grass. For some reason, that sound triggered something inside of him, and he clutched his head while sneaking up behind a tree and peeking out at what he saw.

It was the Vigilante and the Medium - only as he watched them now, Vigilante with a gun hitched to her belt and Medium with a broom tied to his back, he could tell that neither of them were what they had seemed to be. And he had just witnessed a mafia murder.

The Mafioso stepped back, and the Janitor knelt down, sifting through pockets, cleaning evidence and wills and proofs of identity, then ripping them into tiny pieces and dropping them in the bucket that he had by his side. And then the Mafioso wrote something down on a piece of paper and dropped it on the body.

"So, what will the dead be saying tonight, Medium?" the Mafioso asked, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

"The Lookout died last night, didn't he?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"I'll make him say that he saw Number Ten visit the escort. That'll implicate him, and if he's innocent, I can say that the Lookout was witched. I'm pretty sure there's a witch. The Sheriff said something Day Three."

A step to the left. The crack of a twig. A startled jump, and the Mafioso reaching for her gun on instinct.

"Who's there?" the Janitor whisper-shouted. "Show yourself!"

Reluctantly, the Amnesiac stepped out from behind the tree. That, though, only made the Mafioso even more startled.

"Number Six, right? What's with your bandages? And why are you here?"

"I had a really bad head injury. I don't remember who I was."

" _That's_ why you didn't claim a role?" the Janitor asked. "Because you _don't know?_ I thought you were a Jester."

The Amnesiac shook his head. "Nope. Just a trauma patient."

"Don't breathe a word of this to _anyone,_ " the Mafioso ordered. "Or you'll find yourself more than just a trauma patient. Got that?"

"Got that."

The Mafioso nodded and retreated back home, and the Janitor was about to follow behind, but then he noticed how the Amnesiac had turned around and continued walking, and he practically ran up to join him.

"Hey," he said quickly. "You should join the mafia. We've got a spot open ever since our consigliere was lynched a day ago. And I feel like you'd fit right in. You seem smart. And competent."

The Amnesiac looked at him and raised a single eyebrow. "Really? This isn't just so I won't rat you out, is it?"

The Janitor shook his head. "No. Honest. I really feel like you'd be good on our team. I know I'd welcome you with open arms, at least."

 _The mafia._ They seemed to have a majority in the game, if the fact that both the town and the neutral roles were dropping like flies was any indicator.

"It's not that simple," the Amnesiac said indignantly. "I don't want to become what I'm not. And I have no idea whether or not I was a consigliere. I doubt it, though."

But the game was dwindling to an end. Even if he hadn't been a mafioso, he would probably need to fake being one in order to win.

"I'll think about it," he said eventually.

But when the Janitor left, he did not walk, like he usually did. He sat down.

 

The next day, the mafia majority lynched the Bodyguard, and the Amnesiac - not town, not mafia, perhaps not _anything_ \- was the only person who abstained. But as the Bodyguard shook and twitched and then went limp, and the Amnesiac watched the mafia high five and laugh at a team, his head began to hurt harder than ever, memories coming back in flashes and flashes and flashes.

A desk strewn with papers, notes scribbled in ink and documents that he had found. A will with nothing but a list of names and a role beside each one.

A single role. Not three.

An exchange of papers with a mysterious man - no, _not_ mysterious, the dead Consigliere. And then, the dead Mafioso.

A kill. A high five. A group laugh, only this time one that he was in.

And then, as he sat on the graveyard's bench and stared at the Consigliere's stone, an ever-so-soft kiss on his cheek.

There was a motion beside him. The janitor had sat down.

"Are you all right?" he whispered, placing his hand on the Amnesiac's. "You seem worried."

An ever-so-soft touch. An ever-so-soft glance.

"You were right," the Amnesiac murmured, leaning into his shoulder. "I _was_ a consigliere. And I think I was in your mafia. Am I right?"

The Janitor did nothing but look down at his feet and fiddle with his shirt. "I was...I was so heart broken when you were lost in that other town. I knew I shouldn't have formed such attachments in the first place, but..."

The Amnesiac - no, the Consigliere - pressed a kiss to his temple and wrapped his arms around him, enveloping him in a comforting embrace. "It's okay, love. I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere."

The Janitor reached a hand up and pulled the Consigliere's bandage off. Together, they watched it fly away into the wind, so far that it was nothing but a speck of white in the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> GIDEON GREY IS THE FOX FROM ZOOTOPIA WHO SCRATCHED JUDY'S FACE WHEN SHE WAS A KID I'M SCREAMING THE NAME CAME TO ME OUT OF NOWHERE AND THEN I GOOGLED IT AND REALIZED


End file.
